


The Golden Rose - By Their Side

by SantaManana



Category: Choice of Games, The Golden Rose (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Accidents, Ballroom Dancing, Fluff, Multi, Shenanigans, Sickfic, just another day in the life of a White Company merc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:00:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24511198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SantaManana/pseuds/SantaManana
Summary: Another series of shorts and snippets revolving around MCs of The Golden Rose Discord and their ROs
Relationships: Alessa (The Golden Rose)/MC, Hadrian (The Golden Rose)/MC
Kudos: 2





	1. Alessa, and Amelia in a tree

**Author's Note:**

> Alessa and Hadrian belong to AnathemaFiction and her CoG story The Golden Rose. All other characters belong to us humble players.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for s4fira, who owns Amelia

Alessa sighs through her nose and rubs her temple before craning her neck upward. Above her, Amelia hangs upside down, leg caught in a rope trap. Amelia sways slightly while offering her a sheepish grin. 

"Amelia...how did this happen?"

Amelia rubs the back of her neck and chuckles nervously, "Hah... I asked Hadrian to teach me some hunting traps and wanted to test it out, but then I stepped back to take a look and got my foot tangled in it and then..."

She spreads her arms out wide in a sort of gesture of victory--if victory could look excited and forlorn all at once, like a puppy chewing on a brand-new toy, only to find out it was its master's shoes. 

"I guess it really worked?" Amelia's lopsided grin grows further.

"...How long have you been hanging up there?"

"...About 10 minutes. But you know," Amelia flashes her a double thumbs up, "it's fun to 'hang' out here!"

Alessa's icy blue gaze pierces her. Then without a word, she pivots on her heel and begins to walk away.

"W-wait! Alessa! Please, I'm so sorry! Help me down!"

Alessa continues on, ignoring her girlfriend's pleas while her lips curl into a tiny smirk. Of course she would help her down later, but right now? It could wait while Amelia learns her lesson.


	2. Vincent and Alessa's cold hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for AndrewPandrew97 and his MC, the shy giant Vincent

It’s hot, too hot.

Vincent is  _ dying _ . 

Day by day, the disease spreads further throughout his body, burning him up from the inside out. Long ago, he once stumbled across a book in the library, left forlorn in a dark and damp corner. Within the pages, he saw diagrams of human bodies: torsos, limbs, organs—all mapped out in exquisite detail. One diagram that was forever scored into his mind was a drawing of a burn victim, the flesh wrinkled and disgustingly raw. Though no smell emanated from the book itself, Vincent could only imagine that acrid, rotten stench. Like ash mixed with meat that had been left too long in the sun 

He wonders if he looks like that. Smells like that. Surely his flesh is rotting as he lies here on the pallet—that’s why no one’s come up to visit him. Is this how it will end? In a too-stuffy room with no one, not even books, by his side to comfort him in his last moments?

The door opens. But his hazy vision prevents him from making out who it is. Vincent whines in pain as he attempts to sit up. 

Immediately, a hand is at his shoulder urging him down. Brown hair and cool blue eyes swim in and out of focus.

_ Alessa _ .

Vincent smiles weakly. In this dim lighting, she looks like a goddess, beauty personified and radiant in ways that mortals could never capture on paintings and murals in abandoned temples. She shines like the sun at midday, hidden behind clouds. All gold and bright despite hiding under a cover of sarcasm and—

Oh no, he must be  _ really _ sick if he’s waxing poetic like that.

Alessa urges a cup of water to his lips. Though the small sip does little to soothe his throat, he nods gratefully to his nurse. He can make out an upturned eyebrow on her face.

“Who would have thought,” she murmurs, “that our resident scholar could be so dramatic when he’s caught a bad case of the cold?”

Vincent attempts to speak, to ask her to open up the window in here, but his tongue is too thick and mind too sluggish. Damn this accursed heat. So he seeks out the next coldest thing.

Before Alessa realizes what he’s doing, he manages to grab her icy cold hands and lift them up, meeting them halfway as he brings his forehead down to touch them. Immediately, he sighs in relief as the cold washes over and soothes him. 

He can feel the hands stiffen and hear a sharp intake of breath, but the thought is tucked away into the back of his mind. Does it really matter? Here is coldness and goodness and that’s all he can focus on now. 

(And perhaps it’s best that he does, lest he see the blush burn on Alessa’s cheeks and her stunned look.)


	3. Qathar's calloused hands and Alessa's kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the softness of hand kisses in this post: https://anathemafiction.tumblr.com/day/2020/02/16/
> 
> Qathar is my MC. He doesn't know what emotions are. Help.

_ Thwack _ . The arrow did not find the target’s center as Qathar had hoped but instead embedded itself on the border of the central black dot and crossing into the next larger ring. He reached for another arrow in his hip quiver but curled his fingers around empty air. Qathar scowled and lowered his bow, annoyed at having to go and retrieve his shots. 

After he gathered them up and turned to go back to his spot, he spied a figure already waiting there. Golden rings flashed in the light of the late afternoon as Alessa tapped her fingers against her crossed arms. 

Qathar felt shame pricking at him, at the thought of Alessa witnessing his sloppy marksmanship. “You’ve come to watch?” he grumbled. “Better to be finding shows elsewhere.”

A sigh through her nose. “I’m not here to laugh at you. Merely to let you know that dinner is being served now.”   
  


“Dinner can wait,” he stated. “I have another hour to be practicing.” He turned back to face the wooden target. 

But before he could draw and nock an arrow, Alessa reached out and...

She grasped his wrist. Tight enough to let him know that she wanted him there, loose enough for him to escape easily. 

As if he could. He was her prisoner through and through. He locked gazes with her and found himself lost within the cool blue of her eyes, sparking with some hidden emotion like a treasure glimmering from the bottom of a pool. Qathar found himself unable to tear himself away, only to wait and wonder what Alessa had planned.

Slowly, she brought his hand up to her lips and brushed them against his fingers. They twitched at the electrifying contact. So light was the touch that If he had not seen it happening before his eyes, he would have thought it a dream. The coldness of her grasp contrasted greatly with the heat that engulfed Qathar’s cheeks. 

Those full lips stretched into the smallest of smirks as Alessa enjoyed the stunned look on the archer’s face. “Careful with your hands, lest you overstrain them. T’would be foolish if they were hurt in pursuit of perfection, when their owner is already the best archer in the company.”

  
  
The last sentence seemed to wake him up. Qathar turned his head sharply to the side but his hand did not free itself from hers. “No needing for the worry,” he grumbled, “They are mine, doing as  _ I _ wish.” 

As if he believed in the lie. As if every part of him did not already belong to her. 


	4. the ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Qathar and Arsinoë, Sarah's MC. They like to stand in the corner at parties and people-watch.

Qathar grumbles as he fiddles with the collar of his doublet. Curse this party, curse all these people, and curse this forsaken outfit he’s been saddled with. 

All around him, the ball is in full swing. People walk past him, sipping on goblets and gossiping or escorting their partners to the dance floor where couples whirl around to the sounds of the hired musicians. By the far side of the room is a sumptuous feast table, groaning beneath the weight of several silver platters full of roast meats, breads, fruits, and drinks of every kind that gold can buy. Qathar sips on his own juice and curls his lips in disgust, despite the sweet flavor. _Nobles_ , and their incessant need to show off everything. 

“You look like you would rather not be here.” Qathar inclines his head to look up at Arsinoë who comes to stand by his side. He returns the greeting he sees in her wide, placid eyes. 

“No, of course I love to being surrounded by all these χαζος.”

“Ηλίθιοι,” she calmly corrects him.

“Mmm, Ηλίθιοι.”  
  


(by Sarah)

They stand there for some more time, watching the crowd. Eventually, Qathar speaks up.

“Why are you not asking him to dance?”

She keeps staring ahead. “........Who?”  
  


“The biggest Ηλίθιοι of them all, who has being staring at you all night.” And it’s true, Arsinoë is stunning in her embroidered blue gown. It flows down like a waterfall on her tall, willowy form. The veil and diadem on her head glitter and highlight her serene eyes and full lips, giving her a regal appearance. 

Arsinoë tilts her head as her gaze falls on Hadrian, who blushes deeply and looks away. 

“...I think you’re wrong. I’ve been watching him and he doesn’t look at me that much.”

Qathar bites down the urge to face-palm. Instead, he settles for narrowed eyes at Arsinoë. 

“If you are having time to be looking at him, then you are having time to dance with him. Heavens above, he will not come here to ask with those sad puppy eye looking, so you should go to him. Or I am swearing I am pouring this drink on your dress.”

Her lips slowly curl up the tiniest bit, the Arsinoë equivalent to a full-blown cat’s smirk. “You wouldn’t. You’re too soft. But I’ll go.”

“NOT. SOFT,” he calls out as she glides away.

“You should ask Alessa to dance as well,” she calls over her shoulder. Hadrian, who sees her walking in his direction, lights up more than the chandeliers in the ballroom.

Qathar mutters under his breath, “Why would I?” But he lets his eyes find Alessa who is across the room, leaning against a pillar, looking bored out of her mind as one or two fancily-dressed men try to converse with her.

There’s an uncomfortable pressure on his throat. The damn tailor must have had the wrong measurement for his collar. Qathar grumbles as he leaves the room for some fresh air, unaware of the blue eyes following him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arsinoë's full title is Arsinoë of Constantinople, a Greek woman wandering in a land that's become hostile to mentions of the Roman Empire. I like to think that as foreigners in a hyper-"Catholic" land, they share a kinship over being bilingual. Qathar speaks Arabic, but is asking her to teach him some Greek. 
> 
> χαζος = stupid  
> Ηλίθιοι = idiot  
> (I'm not an authority on Greek so take these translations with a grain of doubt.)
> 
> Actually, Sarah has informed me that Arsinoë has now been completely swept off her feet by Alain, one (1) charming bastard you can encounter in the inn or after a carriage nearly runs you over. This was written before then. 
> 
> Rip Hadrian.


End file.
